Buildings by Andrew Kolarik

The buildings breathe. Silver, alabaster curves, supple limbs, concentric circles
ascending to the blazing, falling stars.
The walls sway, the ground falls away, always in motion. The ceiling curls.
The voice reverberates, ricochets, enfolds these streets, this sanguine city.
The packed earth shifts restlessly, as the framework seeps into line.
The flock plots and grumbles, bands together, wheels and climbs.

Traverse through tarnished, long decaying splendour. Words claw their way
from out of the dark, from the folds and hollows of the rictus mask. The tiles are cracked
and worn and battered, the leaves black and mouldered, in crystal glades and empty streets.
The voice is old. Old. Sinuous, dry as cordwood, it speaks of excess. Pleasurable extremes.
Tubes gurgle fluids from elbow to cheek, a puff of moisture, puce, belladonna.
Words that spiral, fracture. Stir submerged, starved, half-forgotten, rodent dreams.

This realignment, the disorientation. Pray that it lasts a little longer this time.
Here disorder of the senses is fine, and welcome.
There are not many more times left
to nurture this thing, this lack of illusion.
Your caress slides, falls away, as the buildings sway.
Stylized, formalized. Dip, then fall out of the sky.

Hailing from Croydon, Andrew Kolarik spent ten years writing post-punk lyrics for live performance in London and Cardiff. He has written poetry, short fiction and film criticism appearing in Utopia Science Fiction Magazine, Down in the Dirt, Carillon, Pulp Metal Magazine, Supernatural Tales, Eunoia Review, Horla and Yellow Mama.